Of Words and War
by ThisIsMyGuise
Summary: He's counting down the days to throw a spear in my back. I'm counting down the days till I get to cut up his pretty face. We should be at odds with each other, but at least we're on the same page, at least I can trust him to stab me in the back. CLATO
1. The Same Page

A small smirk plays on my lips, teasing the crowd. I know what they're thinking. I know that they don't like me, don't like the fact that I've stolen this opportunity away from them. I know they think that I don't deserve this, that I'm too young, too small, too proud and arrogant.

And yeah, I am younger than most, I am small and I am proud and I am arrogant. But I wouldn't have volunteered if I didn't think I was capable. Brutus wouldn't have told me to volunteer if he didn't think I was capable. I'm not here to make friends. I'm here to win. And win is what I'm going to do.

I stare defiantly at the crowd; they may hate me now, but in less than a month they'll be cheering my name; after all, I will be the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. There's no doubt about it. Not even Cato, my fellow tribute, is going to stop me.

He may be taller, stronger, older, but I'm faster, more agile. I'll have sliced his throat open, watching in glee as the blood pours out, draining him of life, before he even realises what I'm doing. He'll be dead before he realises what I've done.

I've seen him in training. He's good, I'll give him that. But I'm better. Sure, he's probably the more likable out of the two of us; after all, I can't remember the last time I've seen him without his usual entourage surrounding him, following his every movement with adoration. And yeah, I admit, he'll probably be the favourite going into the arena, probably get more sponsors too.

But in my eyes, that makes him weak. He's needy. He won't survive without help. He won't survive without a group of people doing all of his dirty work for him. Me, I've been fending for myself since I can remember. I don't need help. I don't need anybody. I'm a born fighter. And I will fight to the end, believe me.

The district escort tells the two of us to shake hands. I turn to face Cato, waiting impatiently as he carries on soaking up the adulation of his adoring fans. Finally, as the cheering dies down, he turns to face me, as if only just realising that he isn't alone on the stage. He looks at me, probably sizing me up, before smirking down at me. I admit, he's nearly a foot taller than I am, but that doesn't mean a thing. In fact, it means I have the perfect eye line of his soon-to-be-no-longer-beating heart. A heart that will stop beating because I'm going to make it stop.

We shake hands. His grip is strong, and I have no doubt that he's trying to psyche me out, trying to scare me off. His attempts make me smirk, make me raise an eyebrow and silently wonder if he's a complete idiot. Does he really think trying to break my hand will scare me off? I want to laugh, but I manage to restrain myself; careers aren't supposed to have emotions. We're supposed to be cold hearted killers after all.

I shift slightly, repositioning my hand in his much larger one, smirking as I dig my fingernails into his skin. It's not hard enough to pierce his skin or cause his blood to simmer slightly to the surface, but hopefully it'll leave an indentation. Hopefully it will make him realise that I'm not going to back down. That I'm not going to make it easy for him to win.

In response, he quirks one of his eyebrows and a smirk begins to toy on the edge of his lips. I smirk back, glad that we've had this silent conversation, glad that we've got to know each other, glad that we're on the same page.

**AN: I realised the other day that I'm a massive Clato fan. Who knew? Apparently, not me. Anywho, this is just my attempt to write some moments between to two of them. Some of them will be important, some of them will not. I'll probably spontaneously update, and although I will attempt to go in chronological order, this is not a story per say, but random ficlets that may or may not be related to each other. **

**Anywho, now that's cleared up, I hope you guys enjoyed my first attempt at writing Clato.**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


	2. Getting To Know You

I'm sat in one of the many rooms of the Justice Building. Alone. My parents had attempted to visit me, but I demanded the Peacekeepers to not let them in. I can't believe they tried to see me, tried to say goodbye to me, like they're never going to see me again. It's hardly a confidence booster; my own parents don't think I'm going to be leaving the arena alive. It's an insult really.

I bet Cato's mommy hasn't come to see him off. I get up and begin stalking up and down the length of the room. I need something to do. I can't wait to finally get to the Capitol, finally get to the arena, finally get to kill someone. And finally get to be crowned victor.

The door suddenly opens, and I spin quickly on my heel to see who's dared to interrupt me, though as soon as I see his dark blue eyes I wish I hadn't bothered. His chuckles fill to room, and I tense up, clenching my fists into tight balls and grinding my teeth together.

"Why so jumpy, Little One?" Cato asks, his voice laced with amusement as he steps into the room. He doesn't stop walking until he's inches away from me, his form towering over mine. I ignore his question, choosing to glare at him instead. He snickers some more as I crane my neck to meet his gaze, and I scowl, taking a step back.

"What do you want?" I demand pointedly, hand on my hip. His grin doesn't leave his face, but a steely look of darkened determination fills his eyes. Again, he steps closer to me, but this time, I refuse to move. Refuse to back down. I'm not scared of him. I'm not going to give him the satisfaction.

Cato crouches, practically kneeling on the floor so that we are eye to eye. He brings his hand towards my face, tucking the loose strands of hair that have fallen out of my bun behind my ear, before leaning in.

"I just thought I'd warn you that I am going to win the Hunger Games," he tells me, pronouncing the last eight words slowly for added effect. His voice is quiet, virtually a growl. His face is completely serious, the remnants of the smile having filtered away.

Before I can stop myself, I burst out laughing. Who does he think he is? Seriously, like that is going to stop me from claiming the title all for myself. Obviously, Cato has not taken much notice of me during training, because he is highly underestimating my ability to win.

"Really? Although I appreciate your consideration of warning me, I don't really think it's necessary. In fact, it's not. Because I'm going to be crowned the victor."

This time, it's Cato who is laughing. He stands up, once again towering over me. He smirks, amusement clear in his eyes. "Of course you are, Little One," he says, mocking me.

I cock my head to the side, all sign of my previous humour quickly evaporating. I look at my fellow tribute, taking him in. But he's not just my district partner; he's my opponent. I study him closely. He's strong, I'll give him that. I can see his muscles practically bulging from under his shirt. But he's no victor. I begin counting down the days until I get to end his life. Maybe, if I'm feeling affectionate, I'll make it quick, or maybe, if he carries on being his obnoxious self, I'll cut him slowly, elongating my slashes at a leisurely pace, taking time to admire my handiwork.

"What, you think you're going to stop me?" I scoff, but even I know that maybe, just maybe, if he tried hard enough, Cato could, and would, kill me. Of course, it would have to be a day when I wasn't completely focused, when I wasn't at my peak, when hell had frozen over, but I suppose it could happen. Maybe. Just maybe.

He's looking at me now, scanning his eyes up and down my body intensely. I'm nothing special, not compared to the girls who cling onto Cato. It doesn't bother me though. My purpose in life is not to look nice; it's to kill. But Cato suddenly smiles, nodding his head slightly, as if pleased as to what he is seeing. And not in a 'killing you will be easy' type of way. He looks impressed.

Pride surges through my veins; I'm not typically a vain person, but I can't help but feel a little happy at Cato's nod of approval. I haven't had chance to watch the other reapings, but there's no doubt in my mind that Cato will be the one to beat. Cato will be the one begging for me to end his life after I've finished torturing his body for my own pleasure. Cato will be the one I use and abuse to my heart's content.

"I guess we'll just have to see now, won't we?" he says after a minute of deliberation.

"I guess we will," is my reply. We're still standing in the middle of the room, measuring each other up. I'm a little surprised we haven't been ushered into the waiting train yet, but I don't mind. It's much more fun playing mind games with Cato. Toying with him, trying to psyche him out, messing with his head.

There's a knock at the door and a Peacekeeper appears in the room, ready to herd the two of us onto the train. I try to make a move, but Cato reaches out and grabs my arm, causing me to pause. He let's go, but offer's me his hand to shake.

"May the best tribute win," he tells me, still wearing that smirk of his as I take his hand. This time, it isn't about causing the other pain; our shake is firm, but he doesn't attempt to crush my hand, and I don't try to stab him, although the thought did quickly flit through my mind. Instead, it's a handshake that signifies respect. Signifies comradeship. Signifies that we're slowly getting to know each other.

**AN: So the second chapter is up! Hopefully you guys enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Seriously, writing psychopaths is fun. **

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**

**And I don't want to sound like I'm begging, but please review if you have time. Reviews make my world go round!**


	3. Hypothetical Ends

"Hypothetically speaking," I begin to say, watching Cato pause as my voice fills the empty train compartment. We've been left alone, having gone through some basic strategy this morning with Brutus and Enobaria, but they decided to give us some 'off time' before dinner. I'm not too sure why; I mean, it's not like you can be too prepared.

It probably has something to do with the fact Enobaria doesn't like me though, which is fine, because I'm not too keen on her either. Sure, she's a victor and all, but her win was a fluke. She got lucky. She didn't deserve to win her games. Everybody in District Two knows she didn't deserve to win.

And the only reason why Enobaria hates me is because Challis, the girl she was grooming to be the female tribute, wasn't quite quick enough to volunteer. Like it was my fault she was slow. Like it was my fault that this was the last year she could participate in the Games. And anyway, I've seen Challis in training, and she spent more time flirting with Cato and the other boys than she did actually practising. She would have been killed in the bloodbath. I mean, the girl couldn't even run eight miles without collapsing. She would have been a pathetic excuse of a career. In fact, she'd have been a pathetic excuse of tribute, full stop.

District Two may be oblivious to the fact that I'm going to be the next victor at the moment, they may underestimate my ability now, but soon they will be hero-worshipping me, begging me to teach their dear, much beloved children my skills, my knowledge, my ability to kill.

Cato looks up at me, waiting for me to carry on. He's doing push-ups on the floor, and I'm not too sure whether he's doing it because of boredom or because he wants to show off. If it's the latter, it's not working, because I'm only half watching him, half playing with a discarded knife that someone – probably Brutus – left behind.

"Hypothetically speaking," I repeat as Cato carries on doing push-ups, silently counting to himself. He's even mouthing the numbers, as if afraid to lose count. _Sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine_.

"Let's say you are crowned the winner," I say, smiling slightly as Cato perks up, looking at me once again as a grin breaks out onto his face. "I said 'hypothetically'; it doesn't mean you are going to be the actual winner."

"Just get on with it Clove," Cato grunts, causing me to roll my eyes. I swear he has the worst mood swings. Seriously, one minute he's grinning and the next he looks ready to throttle me. He won't though. I know he won't lay a finger on me, at least, not until we're in the arena. I think I amuse him. He certainly amuses me.

_Eighty-three. Eighty-four._

"How are you going to kill me?" I ask, getting comfortable in my chair. I'm intrigued at what his answer will be. I know he's been thinking of ways to kill me, to force my untimely demise onto me. It's not like I haven't. Ever since he lunged onto the stage, as graceful as Cato can be, I've been thinking about his death at my hands. I've been picturing his blood pooling at my feet, his eyes lacking life. It's what I'll be dreaming of until we get into the arena, until I finally get a chance to fulfil my goal.

Without missing a beat, without hesitating, and still doing push-ups, he tells me how he is planning on killing me. His response is even nonchalant. "Easy. A spear through the back."

"Through the back?"

_Ninety-six. _

"Of course. You'll be running away in fear, little one." His tone is light, tantalising me. I roll my eyes, dropping the knife harshly onto the wooden table, the sound bouncing off of the four walls that contain us.

_One-hundred._

"In your dreams," I tell him, and frown, because it's hardly the best retort I could have come up with. And he knows it, because he gets up, off of the floor, with a massive smile on his face. I scowl, quickly glancing at the knife I just dropped, wanting to grab it and lunge at him. I want wipe that smile off of his face. No. I want to carve one onto it, so he'll be permanently smiling.

"You're turn. Push ups as well, Little One," Cato orders me, and I comply. I try and tell myself that it's not because I want to prove myself to Cato, but he's successfully found the chink in my armour and we've only known each other for a few hours.

I mentally curse myself. I can't let him get one over on me. I am better than him. I am going to win the Hunger Games. And I am going to kill Cato. There's no doubt about it. I will end him, one way or another.

I'm on thirty press-ups before I answer him. And it's not just because I'm busy fantasising about the many wonderful ways I can end his life, even though that's what I've been doing ever since he stepped onto the stage. Ever since it was decided he was going to be my opponent in all of this. I wait to answer him because as I work-out, he's intently watching me. And I'm not too sure whether this is a good or a bad thing.

"I'm going to cut up your pretty little face. Nice and slow," I tell him, a dark sneer appearing on my face. In my mind, I can see his pain and his anguish. I can see his blood covering my hands, my clothes, covering the ground he will no longer walk upon.

My answer doesn't faze Cato; in fact, he starts smiling broadly again. I shouldn't be surprised, not really, because it's not like his answer scared me either. He chuckles softly, waiting till I'm onto fifty press-ups before deciding to speak.

"You think I'm pretty, Little One?" Cato asks lightly, and I risk a glance at him. He's made himself comfortable in my seat, lounging about; feet even perched on the table. I roll my eyes at him for about the hundredth time since the Reaping; apparently, Cato has this effect on me.

I quickly tire of doing normal push-ups, so I place my right hand behind my back and start doing some one armed press-ups instead. From the corner of my eye, I can see Cato nodding in approval.

"Get over yourself Cato. And stop calling me 'Little One'. My name is Clove," I tell him through gritted teeth. I've always been the smallest. Even when I was training with the kids who were my age, I was the smallest. It just got worse when Brutus moved me up to train with the sixteen year olds; everybody constantly towered over me. But just because I'm short doesn't mean I'm not as capable, not as talented as everyone else. I am. Probably even more so.

Beads of sweat are slightly forming on my forehead, and I want to tell Cato to go open a window or something because it's getting too hot in here for my liking, but I don't want him to think I can't cope, so I just stay quiet.

"Whatever you say, Little One. Whatever you say," Cato says cheerfully, before getting up and walking over to the window, opening it slightly to allow a cool breeze to filter in, as if he just read my mind.

With his back turned, he doesn't notice me hesitate in my movements ever so slightly, but I quickly manage to get a grip on myself and carry on with my work-out, mentally cursing as I go along, silently wondering how the hell Cato seems to know me so well.

**AN: So this is the third chapter; I hope you all liked it =]**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HINGER GAMES!**

**Ps. Reviews make my world go round!**


	4. A Dinner Date To Remember

The dinner table is full of wonderful and colourful food; all of which I ignore. Instead, I spoon some more potatoes onto my plate to accompany the tender, slightly pink meat. Its tinged red in the middle, remnants of blood ooze from the centre, and I can't help wondering if this is what human flesh looks like after it's been ripped from the bone and cooked; the juicy red blood simmering as the skin swells and crackles under the heat.

I pick up my knife and softly carve the meat, watching in delight as it falls apart due to the pressure I'm inflicting onto it. I imagine the slice of beef morphing into the face of one of my opponents, and I start sneering with glee as I speed up my cutting, tearing the meat to pieces, flicking my wrist expertly in an attempt to completely destroy it.

I hear their screams, their pleas, begging me to stop. Begging me to end their suffering. Begging me to take mercy on them. But I won't. I'll carry on, carving and cutting and slicing and splicing. My hands will be stained with their blood. With their life. And as I slowly make the final cut, the one that promises death, I'll make sure to accentuate my hacking, make sure to severe as many nerves, as many veins as possible, and as I do it, I'll wear a smile on my face so that they know that I've won. That I will win.

"Clove."

The calling of my names awakens me from my dreaming, and I lift my head to see three pairs of eyes looking at me; Brutus, Enobaria and Cato. Our Escort, a woman named Juno, is the only one who isn't looking at me; instead, she's looking at my plate with a look of anguish filling her face. I lower my head, and notice that I've carried on carving into the porcelain, causing the plate to become scratched.

I drop my knife, rolling my eyes as Juno lets out a small whimper. The woman confuses me; after all, it's just a plate. The other three are still looking at me; Enobaria's glaring, probably counting down the days until she finally gets me out of her hair, Cato's sneering at me, his usual smirk still on his face, and I have to restrain myself from grabbing the knife again, wanting to repeatedly stab him in the face and causing his skull to shatter due to the excessive force of my savage assault. Brutus is watching me curiously, and I sigh, fed up of being the only source of entertainment on this stupid train. I can't wait to escape the compound; I can't wait to get to the Capitol and start training, start preparing myself for my killing spree.

"What?" I ask, glaring at the three of them.

"You're going to need to learn some manners, Clove, if you want to get any sponsors," Enobaria tells me harshly. I roll my eyes at this; I don't need sponsors. I'm capable of winning this thing without the help of anyone else. In fact, I'm planning on ignoring any sponsors that come my way; I've been looking after myself for fourteen years and I'm not going to stop just because I'm in the arena. These are my Games, and I'm going to play them using my own rules. I tell her this, and she laughs harshly. "With that attitude, you'll be as good as dead," and with that, the conversation dies.

I want to tell her – no, I want to scream at her – that I don't mind if I die. Sure, being crowned victor of the Hunger Games is an honour and all, but the only reason I volunteered to participate was so I could get to kill someone. I want to know what it feels like to hold someone's life in your hand. I want to be able to decide who lives and who dies. I want to make people beg me to take mercy.

A part of me even thinks I'm better of dying. If I do get out of the arena alive, then what do I do? My whole life has been spent focusing on training for the Games. What am I supposed to do afterwards? All I've ever dreamt of is killing. I can't do that afterwards. And I certainly don't want to turn out like Brutus or Enobaria, or any of the other victors and trainers. I want to end people's lives, not help them survive.

But I know there's no point in telling her this, so I bite my tongue. Everyone has begun eating again, apart from Cato, who's still staring at me. I look at him questioning, but he shrugs slightly, turning his attention back to his dinner. I don't even think he understands.

The rest of dinner is eaten in silence. A couple of avox girls come in and start clearing up the table. I look at them, wondering what technique was used to pull their tongues out, wondering if they were conscious or not, wondering if their screams suddenly ceased when their tongues were ripped brutally out of their mouths.

I see the jug slip from one of the avox's hands before Cato does, and I can't help but snigger as gravy falls into his lap. Even though no one is talking, the room suddenly becomes hushed. The only sound comes from the avox who takes a short intake of breath. Cato sits as still as a statue, staring at the mess right in front of him. He wears no expression, but there's a dark glint in his eyes and a vein on his neck throbs intensely. His jaw tenses, and I imagine he's grinding his teeth together.

Suddenly the avox is pinned to the table, Cato's arm throttling her neck. She tries to scream, but no sound leaves her mouth. I watch, amused, as Cato calls her every name he can think of; in fact, I can't help but be impressed by his wide range of vocabulary. He's psychically shaking as he ravages at her.

Taking his time, Brutus slowly makes his way over to the pair, and slowly peels Cato off of the avox. She stay's where she is, cowering, as if Brutus is going to start his own attack on her. Enobaria is sat, drinking her wine, looking bored.

"Out," Brutus says calmly, and I'm unsure who he's referring to; the avox, Cato, or even me. But Cato pulls away and storms out of the compartment, swearing as he goes, kicking every door open. I can't help but snigger, and Brutus shoots me a dirty look, but I don't care.

I don't care because Cato has very kindly shown me his flaw. I smirk, imaging the many ways I can use this against him.

"Me scratching the plate doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" I tell Juno, who looks as if she's about to cry. Stupid bitch. I get up, and follow Cato out; ignoring Brutus' warning of not winding him up. I smirk, because that's exactly what I'm planning on doing.

**AN: Not the greatest chapter, but I wanted to update ASAP, so this will do for the time being. No actual Cato/Clove conversation, though we do get to see them both in their psychotic glory.**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAME!**


	5. One For You, One For Me

"The blonde bitch is mine," I warned Cato, as we watch the stupid, simpering girl from One prance onto the stage. I already hated her. I couldn't wait to force that fake smile off of her face with one of my knives. I'd have her screaming on the floor, squirming as the blood drained from her pathetic body as I stood with one foot on her neck, choking her. Laughing at her.

District One is a disgrace to the whole of Panem. The way they attempted to flatter the Capitol, craving and begging for attention; it was sickening and pathetic and I really wanted to stab the girl, Glimmer, repeatedly in the back. She was a waste of space, I could already tell. She'd bring nothing to the Career pack, and I couldn't wait till I got the chance to get rid of her for good.

"Then the guy is mine," Cato told me. I just nodded. He didn't seem as bad as the girl, but he'd have to go eventually. If Cato wanted to be the one to do that, then fine. Of course, I wanted to kill as many people as possible, but some people just weren't worth the time or effort.

Aimless killing would just get boring after a while. Sure, killing in general would always be fun, but I wanted someone who would put up a fight, someone who would be a problem. It would mix things up, keep things interesting. It would make sure my entire life spent focussing on training wouldn't go to waste. Killing people from the outer Districts would be easy; it would be boring. They were stupid, weak, sick. All you had to do was say 'boo' and then they'd run away, screaming in fear. I wanted someone who would test my abilities. I wanted someone who would keep me on my toes. And Cato seemed to be that someone.

It hadn't taken too long to find him, sulking in a dark room. It would probably have been hilarious if it wasn't so pathetic. After all, Cato was an eighteen year old killing machine, and here he was, having a strop over some spilt gravy. It was pitiable. He was pitiable. No, he was a disgrace. Not only to District Two, but to me as well. We were supposed to be the ones to beat, and here he was, having a strop.

When I had first entered the room, he glared at me – in, what I guess was supposed to be in a menacing way – and told me to go away, but once I had waved the knife I had pocketed from the dining room around threateningly, he had soon decided my company wasn't that bad.

To be completely honest, I wasn't too sure why I followed him. Sure, Enobaria constantly scowling at me was beginning to get on my nerves, but that wasn't why I had left the dining room thirty seconds after Cato's dramatic exit. Maybe it was because I wanted to annoy Cato. Maybe it was because he amused me. Or maybe, and I was hedging my bets that this was the real reason, it was because I know knew his fatal flaw. I knew what wound him up. I knew how to get into his head. And once I was in there, I wasn't going to leave.

I was going to mess with him. I was going to make him shout. I was going to make him cry. I was going to make him do anything and everything I wanted him to do. And there was nothing he could do to stop me.

We were currently watching the highlights from this morning's Reapings, dividing up the tributes and deciding who would kill which pathetic excuse of a human being. So far, I had the girl from 1, both District Three's, and the boys from Four and Five. No one so far seemed a threat, even those from the Career districts.

We were definitely the ones to beat. Our reaping had presented us as fierce, strong and violent. There was definitely a glint in both of our eyes that made it obvious that we were dangerous.

When our Reaping was shown, Cato had quipped, "looking good, Little One," causing me to glare at him. I hated his nickname for me. I hated him. But I refused to answer, refused to take the bait. After all, I would get my revenge in the arena when I killed him. When he would be on his knees, begging me to stop the pain. I was going to torture him. I was going to make him wish he was dead. I was going to make him regret underestimating me. Make him regret calling me names and making fun of my height.

"Do you think we should make an alliance with the other Careers?" Cato asked suddenly, turning to face me. We were currently watching the outer districts, which, for lack of better words, were boring.

I stayed quiet for a moment, thinking about his question. He had a point; apart from us two, the Careers were weak. Hell, everyone looked weak. Which wasn't fair, because I came here for a fight, and I was determined to get a fight.

I wanted to be covered in the blood of my victims. I wanted their lifeless bodies to be piled up, surrounding me, engulfing me due to the sheer number of people I had killed. I wanted to taint the earth with the blood and the death that I had caused.

"Yes," was my answer, staring at the screen. A feeble little thing – a runt – from District Eleven had just been reaped, perking my interest. She was short and young. And so was I. But she was afraid. She had tears welling in her eyes. And she wasn't anything like me. I was strong. I was fierce. I was vicious. I'd kill her easily. It wouldn't take too long. It wouldn't take too much effort to force her body to collapse into a heap onto the floor. I could kill her in one, simple throw. One knife, right through her back, ripping through her spinal cord into her beating heart. She'd be dead in a matter of seconds. Hell. She was already my target. She was already dead.

Cato was still watching me, causing me to laugh. He frowned, but that only made me laugh even more. I knew – no, everyone knew – that Cato was the one to beat. Cato was the one people would be backing. Cato was the one to beat.

And here he was, waiting for me explain my reasoning. Here he was, waiting for the advice of a fourteen year old girl.

He really was pathetic.

"Really? You seriously need me to explain this to you?" I asked him exasperated, turning my attention away from the screen. It was only District Twelve's Reapings anyway, and everyone knew they were awful at this sort of thing. Both of their tributes would be dead the moment the claxon sounded, signalling the start of the Games.

Cato's jaw tightened and I could hear him grinding his teeth together. The vein on his neck throbbed again, and this was quickly becoming a telltale sign that he was about to loose it.

A smirk forms on my lips; it's going to be easy to mess with him. It's going to be easy to play with him. To eventually destroy him.

"We're forming an alliance with One," I tell him slowly, though it pains me to say it. The first person I want to kill is the blonde bitch. I want to stain her perfectly coiffed hair with the blood spilling out of her neck. It'll be one swift, perfect motion. The blood with gurgle and bubble and turn her hair crimson. But I can't kill her. Not to begin with. After all, where would the fun be in that?

"I want them to be on edge. I want them to be in constant fear of us. They'll know we're going to kill them eventually. They can't be stupid enough to pretend otherwise. But they're going to want to be in an alliance with us. They know they won't get past the bloodbath without us. They know they can't survive without us. And so we'll join them and make them work for our protection. And when we have no more use to them, we'll simply dispose of them. We'll wait a few days – maybe they'll be stupid enough to think we won't hurt them – so when we do pounce, when we do slice their throats open, they'll be surprise and shock in their eyes. They'll-"

"CLOVE!" Cato said, elbowing me. I turn and scowl. How dare he interrupt me? How dare he ask for my opinion and then ignore me?

"What?" I ask him, my voice quiet as I try and control the anger that's burning white sparks within me. I refuse to allow my emotions get the better of me. . I refuse to let the fuse blow. I refuse to be reckless with my anger like he is

"Look," Cato replied, demanding my attention turn back to the screen. I want to argue. I want to tell him he can't tell me what to do, but I know it's a battle that will end up being ugly, so I simply relent, though I scowl as I turn to face the screen.

It takes me a moment to realise what is so important; what made Cato interrupt my speech. On screen, there is a girl, slightly older than me, volunteering to participate in the Hunger Games. It's no big deal. After all, both me and Cato volunteered. Only, this isn't one of the Career Districts. This is District 12.

I stare and I stare at the girl. I think I hate her. I think I hate her more than I hate Glimmer. How dare she do this? How dare she ruin my Games? No one from District Twelve has ever volunteered. And now people are going to pretend that she's something special just because she volunteered.

Cato's staring as well, and the vein in his neck in pulsing at an erratic beat. I quickly look at him; his fists are clenched. So are mine. My knuckles are white and my nails are digging into the flesh of my hand. It's not fair. This is my Games. This is my time to shine. And this girl has taken that away from me. The commentators are gushing about her; I even hear one of them claim that she's a strong contender in the battle to become victor.

Katniss Everdeen. That's apparently her name. She volunteered in place of her sister. I volunteered in place of Challis Carter, a girl that I barely even know. Surely that's more honourable than volunteering in place for a family member? I could be risking my life to save a stranger. Of course, that's not the reason why I did it. I volunteered because I wanted to kill. I wanted to win. And I will win.

"She's mine," Cato tells me, his voice barely audible as he stares intently at the girl. I look at him. His face is red, flushed almost. His eyes are bulging. The vein's throbbing and his fists are still clenched. I'm guessing he hates her as much as I do.

She's managed to ruin this for us. In two simple words, she's ruined this for us. People won't be talking about the savages from District Two. No, instead they'll be talking about her and her stupid morals.

I don't bother answering Cato because I'm definitely not agreeing to that. It's stupid anyway, deciding who's going to kill who, mainly because Cato is going to be the first person I kill. Sure, he could be useful, but he's also a weakness. He's reckless and hasty and most of all, he gets on my nerves too much. To put it simply, for the sake of my sanity, he has to die.

And then I'm going to kill Katniss Everdeen. I'm going to make it slow. I'm going to make it painful. I'm going to mutilate her body. I'm going to make her unrecognisable. I'm going to make her wish she never volunteered in place of her precious little sister. I'm going to use my knives to draw on her; I'm going to drag my blade over her skin, causing blood to seep out in pretty little patterns. I'm going to stab the knife into her, thrust it into her. I'm going to dismember her, gut her. Decapitate her.

I'm going to destroy her.

**AN: And that's another chapter done and dusted. I'm sorry it's taken me a while to update. I've been working on my other story, as well as catching up with my reading. I should hopefully update sometime next week, though that might turn out to be a lie because I'm spending some time in London so I might not have time. Anywho, enough with my ramblings. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so fare; it seriously means a lot to me. Plus, I shall try and answer most of the reviews/queries in the next couple of days.**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


	6. Dream A Little Dream Of Me

**AN: This chapter begins very dark and very violent. You've been warned =D**

My dreams had been tainted with endless violence last night.

I dreamt of cutting up Glimmer's face; deforming her pretty, little features until she became a hideous monster, unrecognisable to even her parents. I dreamt of her begging me to stop. I dreamt of her crying in agony; her tears mixing with her blood, streaking red rivers running down her face. I wanted her to be at my feet, where she belonged, begging me to stop the mindless torture. But instead, I ignored the pleas and carried on with my fun.

I dreamt of dismembering her; cutting her up, one small chunk at a time. I dreamt of starting with her fingers; chopping them off neatly until her hand was a bloody mess. Then I'd cut of her foot, an ear. I dreamt of her screams of terror sending shivers of excitement through my veins, causing me to laugh with glee as I held her hand in mine; only, her hand was no longer attached to the rest of her body.

I dreamt of binding Katniss Everdeen up, making it impossible to escape the friendly cuts of my blade. I dreamt of slicing under her skin; one deep cut in the thigh before angling the knife horizontally. With all my strength, I'd thrust the knife upwards, along her leg, tearing the flesh away from the bone. Her screams would be muffled from the gag, but the sound of her discomfort would still be magical to my ears. Her warm, smooth blood would gush out, covering my hands with its sweet nectar.

I dreamt of carving Katniss up; peeling her from her skin. Her flesh would pile up next to me feet as she wiggled and squirmed, trying to escape the agonising torment. As she tried to escape my knife. As she tried to escape me. I dreamt of skinning her alive. I dreamt of the smell of rotting flesh; her rotting flesh. I dreamt of her being a shining, wet mess. Her meaty flesh would ooze with red. She'd be slick, slippery. Her veins – the ones I hadn't severed – would be on show, beating and pulsing erratically.

And I dreamt of killing Cato. I dreamt of stunning him, causing him to stumble and fall to the floor. I dreamt of straddling him, keeping all my power and strength on top of his body. I dreamt of reaching for me knife, the point pricking his skin, causing blood to rush to the surface. I dreamt of writing my name repeatedly, again and again and again, all over his body, claiming my stake over him. Claiming him as mine.

I dreamt of repeatedly writing my name in brilliant red ink; the knife was my pen, and Cato's skin my paper.

I dreamt of covering his body with my name.

Clove, Clove, Clove.

I'd write it on his wrist, his bicep, his abdomen, his forehead. I'd scratch it here, there, everywhere.

Clove, Clove, Clove.

But then I woke up and all of last night's fun memories disappeared.

"Clove, Clove, Clove." Someone was chanting my name, over and over, as sleep slipped through my fingers and I was forced to awaken to the cool morning. I rolled over, glaring at whoever dared to interrupt my delightful dreaming.

The sickly saccharine smell of perfume alerted me that it was Juno, our escort, who had dared to enter my room and disturb my dreaming. I mumbled incoherently at her; the profane cursing aimed at her jumbled up as my mind tried to escape the fogginess of sleep.

"Clove, get up. We're nearly at the Capitol. You need to get up, dressed and ready by the time the train arrives at the platform," she told me in her strange, falsetto voice.

The information caused me to jar upwards, scrambling out of the confines of the duvet. We were supposed to arrive at the Capitol at quarter to nine. I was supposed to be up and training at half six. I always got up at half six to train, no matter what the weather or the situation.

"What time is it?" I demanded, jumping hectically around the room as I attempted to find last night's discarded clothes that I have strewn carelessly around the floor.

"Half eight," Juno replied.

Half eight. Half eight. How was this possible? How had I managed to oversleep by two hours? I had never overslept in my entire life. I was always on time. I was always early. I always made sure I was early so I could train harder. So I could train myself into becoming a victor. And now, when I finally had the chance of fulfilling that dream, I had overslept.

"Why didn't anyone wake me up earlier? I told you to wake me up at half six," I told her, though we both knew the last bit was a lie. I hadn't told anyone to wake me up because I had assumed I was quite capable of getting myself up. I didn't need help. I could do it all myself. Or, that's what I had thought. Now I was beginning to doubt myself.

"Erm, Enobaria said that we should let you have a lay in," Juno said nervously, backing out of the door as I finally finished dressing.

"What?" I asked, slowly, freezing in my tracks as I processed her words. "Enobaria did what?" I screeched, pushing Juno out of the way as I left the bedroom, completely intent on finding that witch and strangling her to death. I wanted to feel her bones crashing and crushing under the force of my hands as I cut off her oxygen supply. I wanted to hear her raspy breath beg me to stop. I wanted to see her skin turn blue as she struggled to fight for her life.

I rushed down the corridor, the blood pounding threw my veins, burning white heat intently as I balled my fists together as I prepared to bludgeon Enobaria.

But I didn't find her. Instead, I found Cato, lounging about, staring out through the window, a faint smile etched on his face as he took in the sights of the Capitol.

"Where's Enobaria?" I asked him, standing to block his view when he didn't answer me straight away. He looked up in shock, blushing slightly that I had caught him admiring the scenery. I asked my question again, waiting with my hands on my hips for him to reply.

"Good morning, Little One. Enjoy your beauty sleep? I must say, it's so nice of you to grace us with your presence on this fine morning," Cato replied, his voice smug as he smirked at me, waiting for me to realise what was going on.

It took me three seconds to realise that it wasn't Enobaria's idea to not get anyone to wake me up. It took me another two seconds to realise it was Cato's idea.

And it took me four more seconds after that to have Cato pinned against the wall, my arm pressing against his jugular as I snarled profanities at him.

Instead of fighting back, or struggling, or yelling at me, he just laughed. Cato laughed. He laughed at me, causing my anger and frustration and hatred to explode. I raised my free arm, swinging it threw the air, aiming for his stupid face.

I wanted to smash my fist against his skull. I wanted to break his nose. I wanted to cause the blood to burst out of his veins and skill down his face. I wanted to pummel him until he was black and blue.

But before I could connect to his face, I froze; fist mid air. He wanted me to attack him. He wanted me to hurt him. He wanted me to get into trouble with the Gamemakers before we even got to the Capitol.

I lowered my arm, but didn't free him from the wall. He had stopped laughing by now, probably because I had foiled his stupid, little plan. What did he take me for? Did he honestly believe that I would fall for his stupid, little tricks?

Everyone knew that it was best not to start a fight before the Games actually begun. If you did, then the Gamemakers would punish you. You'd find yourself lost in the arena, with no food, no supplies. No weapons. And then they killed you in the most undignified way. A tree would fall, trapping you under its weight, and you'd die a long, torturous death.

It was my time to laugh. I laughed loudly and manically as Cato started to turn red; probably from anger that I hadn't attacked him, and probably from the fact that my arm was still pressed against his throat, making it hard for him to breathe.

"Nice try, Cato," I told him, stepping back and releasing him from my hold. "But maybe you should give up with the mind games. I don't think you're smart enough to see them through."

"I don't know what you mean," he said, glaring and sulking as he sat back down again; his bottom lip perturbing out ever so slightly.

"Of course you don't. Of course you have nothing to do with me oversleeping. Of course you had nothing to do with telling Enobaria to tell people not to wake me up," I replied, sitting down opposite him. I ran a hand through my hair, wincing slightly as I realised that in my rush to attack and kill Enobaria, I had forgotten to run a brush through it. Not that I cared. I wasn't here to look pretty. I was here to kill. I was here to win.

"I'm glad we agree that I don't know what you're on about," Cato said, but his eyes started gleaming and his pout had started to turn into a small smile. A smile that I couldn't help but return. I hated to admit it, but it was a good plan. Sort of. Well, it would have been a good plan if he hadn't tried it against me. The sneakiness of it ... well, it appealed to me.

By now, the train had slowed down as we reached the Capitol's train station. Brutus and Enobaria walked into the compartment, the latter glaring as she noticed that there were no visible marks on Cato.

"Good morning Brutus. Good morning Enobaria. I must say, I had the most wonderful sleep. In fact, Juno happened to mention to me that it was your idea, Enobaria, to let me have a couple of hours extra sleep. I must say, that's helped me greatly. So thank you for that. It was most considerable of you," I said to them, my voice syrupy sweet as I smiled brightly at them. Next to me, Cato shifted in his seat, smirking at my sudden cheerfulness.

Brutus just nodded, giving me a strange look; after all, I wasn't exactly well known for being polite or cheery. Enobaria, on the other hand, glared openly at me as she realised that her attempted to ruffle my feathers had failed. I smiled back at her, refusing to blink first as we entered into a silent staring competition.

She lost. She huffed and puffed, muttering under her breath before stalking out of the room, causing me to snigger.

As she departed, Juno entered the room, looking flustered.

"Oh, where's Enobaria going? Should I go after – no? Okay. Well, I just thought I'd inform you that we have just arrived in the Capitol, so could we all depart the train now?" Juno told us. We got up, and she started to herd us towards the train exit.

Cato walked next to me, and just before we stepped out of the door, bent down so he could whisper in my ears.

"Let the fun and game begin," he told me, quite ominously, before leaping down the stairs onto the platform.

I stood still for a moment, digesting his words. He was wrong. The fun and games hadn't begun just yet. The fun would begin the moment the gong sounded, signalling the start of the games. The fun would begin the moment I leapt towards the Cornucopia. The fun would begin when I grabbed the nearest weapon. The fun would begin as I made my first kill. The fun would begin as I caused the ground to be tainted red with the blood of my prey. The fun would begin when the killing did.

Up until then, it was bound to be complete torture.

**AN: I am so, so sorry that it's taken me this long to update. If it's any consolation, I have had my reasons why I haven't updated; my sister has moved back home and then she announce her engagement, I've been worried about my grades – luckily, I've passed the first year of university with a grade average of a B – and then yesterday, when I was ready to update, the internet was down.**

**So yeah...anyway, because I'm no longer panicking about passing university, I should be able to update on a more regular basis – hopefully once or twice a week.**

**Anywho, I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I had so much fun writing it, which is worrying because it's kinda dark to begin with. But hey-ho, I'm weird so it shouldn't have been too much of a surprise.**

**Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! You're comments mean so much to me!**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


	7. In His Head

Cato sat still, mulling over the events of the past few days as his prep team buzzed around the room, getting him ready for this evening's chariot ride. He wanted to be anywhere but here. There was no reason for him to be here. He was already ready. He didn't need to be preened. He didn't need to be covered in make-up. He didn't need to be dressed up.

In his honest opinion, Cato thought he looked completely fine. There was no need for make-up or dress-up. He looked fine. He definitely looked better than any of the other tributes, especially those from the outer districts, with their pale faces, skeletal figures and grimy skin.

They were the ones who needed to be made up, not him.

Then again, he understood that this was one of the steps towards becoming the victor of the 74th Hunger Games. He knew that the chariot ride would win him support. He knew that people would quickly realise that he was the one to back. That he was the one to win.

And he was going to win. There was not a bone in his entire body that doubted his ability to become the next victor.

Not even Clove could stop him. Not even Clove would stand in his way.

He couldn't help but smirk slightly as he thought of his district partner. She was definitely something else. He'd never admit it to her, but he admired the ferocious glint that burnt brightly in her eyes. He admired the fact that she didn't appear to be scared of him. He admired the fact that so far, she hadn't backed down from the fight.

But he was going to kill her. And he was going to enjoy kicking her down. He was going to enjoy killing her.

Sure, she was good company. Sure, he had fun talking to her. Sure, he enjoyed winding her up. And sure, she would definitely be an asset when the Games actually began, but in the end, he was going to have to get rid of her.

And he couldn't wait to get rid of her.

It made him laugh to think that little Clove actually believed that she had a chance to become victor. The girl – despite her young age and her lack of height – actually thought she could win. She actually thought she could beat him. Kill him.

It was pitiable, really.

Because he knew that in the end, it would be down to him and Clove. He knew that the two of them would be the last ones standing. He knew that he was going to kill her, because the other option – her killing him – was both laughable and inexcusable. He wasn't going to let that midget get the upper hand. He wasn't going to get beaten by a girl. A fourteen year old girl at that.

He was Cato. He was the one everyone feared. He was the one people branded as 'mental' and 'psychotic'. Those names made the pride surge within him. You had to work hard to be called things like that, especially when you were from District Two and random acts of violence were a daily occurrence.

He was the strongest tribute District Two had sent into a Hunger Games in a long time. He was better than Enobaria. He was better than Lyme. He was better than Brutus.

And he was definitely better than Clove. He hadn't actually seen her train before, mainly because he was too busy training, as well as being admired by those around him, but he had heard the comments of his fellow careers as they watched her train. They had labelled her as being 'deadly', and he didn't doubt that. There was no way District Two would risk their reputation by allowing a fourteen year old girl compete in the Games if they didn't believe in her.

It was a shame really that they had decided to put her in the same Games as him. If they had just waited a year, waited until the 75th Hunger Games, then District Two would have had back to back Victors, he was sure of it. Clove had a dangerous glint in her eyes that never left her face, and he didn't trust it.

Unfortunately – and Cato really did believe it was a mistake that District Two had put both him and Clove in the same Games – they hadn't decided to wait. And so he was going to have to destroy her. Hurt her. Stab her. Slice her up. And eventually, after he had finished having his fun with her, kill her.

He couldn't wait. He really couldn't.

Clove would be problematic to kill – he'd give her that – but it wouldn't be impossible. And he was the better fighter. He was stronger and bigger than her. He could easily get the upper hand. He could easily pin her to the floor. He could easily penetrate her pale skin with his sword, repeatedly. He would stab her again and again until she stopped struggling under the weight of his body pressed against hers.

The thought of his body on hers made him remember what happened earlier in the day, when Clove had him pressed up against the wall of the train compartment. He smiled, remembering the way she had to stand on her tiptoes to press her arm against his throat, cutting off his air supply.

She hadn't noticed that he'd noticed.

And if he hadn't been fuming over the fact that she had rumbled his and Enobaria's plan to rattle her cage, he would have commented about it. He would have mocked her over it. But she hadn't fallen for his plan, and that annoyed him greatly.

He didn't like the fact that she cottoned on so quickly. He didn't like the fact that she seemed to read him so easily. And he didn't like the fact that for the last thirty minutes or so, he had done nothing but think about her. Think about Clove. She was in his head, and he didn't like that.

Trying to fight her presence, he thought about another girl who was giving him trouble. Katniss Everdeen.

She had made a mockery of the Reapings with her volunteering. No one but the Careers volunteered. And with her messy hair and grimy skin, she was definitely not a Career.

She was a problem. But Cato knew that all problems had solutions. And his solution was to kill her the moment the claxon sounded and the Hunger Games begin. He wasn't prepared to let her steal the show, the attention, the adoration away from him again.

He was going to make sure she had the death she deserved; an unmemorable one. He wasn't going to give her anymore screen time than necessary.

"You're ready," his stylist told him. Cato hadn't bothered to listen when the prep team had introduced themselves. Why should he? They were working for him. He could call them whatever he wished.

Cato nodded, and got up, ready to leave and find Clove.

Clove.

Once again, his district partner had managed to infiltrate his mind. He might have found an easy solution to the Katniss Everdeen problem, but he was going to have to work hard to find one for the Clove Kalis problem.

**AN: And that's another chapter! I thought I'd write this as quickly as possible because I felt bad for taking forever to update, so you should all feel very lucky indeed =] Lol. Anyways, I thought I'd try and write a chapter from Cato's POV. I'm not too sure if I've managed to capture his character perfectly, but I'd thought I'd at least attempt it, so here it is. I think I'm going to stick with writing from Clove's POV – mainly because I LOVE writing her psychobitch babble – though depending on what you guys think of this chapter, I may try another one later on.**

**Also, you may have noticed that I've just given Clove a surname. That was something that really annoyed me in the books. And by 'really annoyed' I mean it completely frustrates me. I love the books, and I love Suzanne Collins' writing style, but it just seems lazy to me not to give characters surnames...Anyway, I'll stop ranting now. If anyone's interested, Kalis is a Filipino sword, which I thought was kinda cool =D **

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


	8. Stop, Time Out

**AN: There's strong language in this chapter. You've been warned =]**

This was unbelievable. No, it was bullshit. It was complete and utter bullshit. And it wasn't fair. I had just endured three entire hours of grooming and plucking and waxing. I had just endured three hours of tedious chatter courtesy of the prep team who were torturing me with their tweezers and their brushes. And had I complained? No, I hadn't. I sat still, staring at the opposite wall, not moving, not flinching, not speaking.

And now I was the one who was in trouble.

It wasn't fair.

I sat on the floor, leaning against the clinically white wall, waiting for Brutus to retrieve me from my apparent 'time out' so I could 'cool down'. I didn't need time out though. And I certainly didn't need to cool down. What I needed was to find that stupid hair stylist and throttle her to an untimely death. That was what I needed.

I had barely touched her. I had barely gotten halfway towards her before the Peacekeepers who had been ordered to keep guard – apparently Brutus had expected something, mainly me, to kick off –had managed to restrain me.

And sure, I may have elbowed and kicked and screamed a couple of profanities, but was I really to blame? I had just sat through three long and tiresome hours of torture – three hours for my annoyance to boil to exceptionally high levels – and then this woman, in all her hideous glory, with her purple tainted skin and blue hair, had the decency – or lack off – to insult me by trying to dye my hair pink.

Pink. Because I'm really known for being especially girly. Not.

Seriously, what was her problem? I'm a killing machine, not a doll.

So what if my hair is knotted and dull? So what if it's boring and brunette? Do I care? No.

And I'd rather have hair that was apparently in 'such a state that even a saint couldn't save it' than have bright pink hair. I was going into the Hunger Games. I was going into the arena. I was going in there with twenty-three people who wanted me dead. Twenty-three people who wanted to kill me. And although it was highly unlikely that they would actually get close to even scratching me with whatever pathetic weapon they were trying to wield, they would be able to find me easily if I had pink hair. It wasn't even practical. But did this woman see it like that? No, of course she didn't. Stupid bitch.

I'm not even here to look pretty. I'm not even here to play dress-up. I'm here to kill. I'm here to plunge my knives into people, causing their guts to burst open and spill blood everywhere. I'm here to cause excessive pain and suffering.

The stupid woman wasn't having any of it, though. Instead, she was determined to give me pink lowlights, so there was nothing left but for me to attack.

I had no choice, not really. It was either sit back and allow this woman to make a mockery of me by messing up my hair, or do everything I could to stop her. Of course I chose the latter option. I had no choice but to choose the latter option.

And now I was the one who was in trouble.

I wanted to scream in frustration. I wanted to pummel that little bitch into a pulp, because this was all her fault. I wanted to grab her precious hair and yank it out of her stupid scalp. I wanted the pair of scissors I had threatened to thrust into her chest and cut her hair, maybe miss a little and cut off her ear in the process.

A door opened down the corridor, and assuming it was Brutus – because seriously, who was going to be stupid enough to mess with me when I was in this foul mood? – I started to speak without looking up.

"This," I told him harshly, gesturing with my hands wildly, "is not fair. Seriously, you should have just let me kill her, because she's a waste of space. I'd be doing everyone a favour if I killed her."

I waited for Brutus to reply; probably to chastise me for letting my emotions get the better of me, or tell me to just get over it. Only, he didn't reply.

"I have no idea what you're on about, Little One," Cato told me, causing me to look up at him, suddenly.

"Just go away, Cato. I'm not in the mood," I warn him, getting up off my position from the floor. Even though I don't want to engage in conversation with him, I don't want him thinking that just because he towers over me, he has some sort of power over me.

"I hate to burst you bubble, Clove, but I'm not here to talk to you," he tells me, sneering. I study him closely. He's looking very sullen and serious at the moment. His fists are clenched and he's frowning. He glares at me for another second, before stepping around me and stalking off down the corridor.

I let him take seven steps away from me before I speak.

"What's up with you?" I ask, jogging up to him. I don't care, not really. But I'm feeling pretty miserable at the moment and everyone knows that misery loves company. Plus there's nothing better than messing with Cato, annoying him and getting on his nerves to lift my spirit.

He ignores me. It doesn't surprise me, really. But he should know by now that this sort of behaviour from him only spurs me on.

I have to run to keep up with his determine strides, but I manage to flit around in front of him just as he's about to go through the door. I position my body so it's blocking his exit, forcing him to either talk to me, or turn around and run away.

Either option looked good to me.

"Move," Cato demands, looking down at me, a scowl prominent on his face.

"No," I simply reply, shifting one hand to perch on my hip.

"Move. Or I will physically move you myself," he warns. His usually tan skin has a pinkish tint to it, and the vein in his neck which is pulsing erratically warns me that he's about to lose it. I smirk at him, daring him to touch me with my eyes. He won't. I know he won't. We both know the moment he puts his hands on me I'm going to go running to the Gamemakers, claiming he's attacked me.

Sure, it's petty. But petty isn't beneath me. I'm willing to do anything and everything in my scheme to destroy Cato.

We stand there, our staring match intent, for a good couple of minutes; both of us refusing to blink, refusing to move, refusing to back down.

He has his hand clenched into a fist, and I'm silently begging him to strike me. I want him to hit me. I want him to hurt me. I want to feel the surge of pain jolt through my skin. I want him to explode on me.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" A voice suddenly appears, and I see Brutus wondering down the corridor at a leisurely pace, not hurrying to split me and Cato up. Cato uses the momentary shift in my attention to push past me, silently fuming as he stalks out of the door and out of my sight.

"No," I tell Brutus, my gaze lingering on the space Cato had just left. I'd never admit it out loud, but that boy confused me as much as he intrigued me.

"Clove?" Brutus says, causing me to remember his presence. Causing me to remember my annoyance at him.

"What?" I demand, glaring up at him. It's not fair that he decided to punish me. It's not fair that he decided to make me have a 'time out'. It's not fair that he decided to treat me like a child.

"Are you ready to go back in there without attacking any member of the prep team?"

"I'm not going to make promises I can't keep," I tell him, walking back down the corridor reluctantly, dragging my heels into the floor as I do so.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Little One," he replies, causing me to frown at his choice of words. The nickname, which I've heard so many times these last couple of days sounds foreign and strange coming from Brutus' lips. In fact, it sounds foreign and strange coming from anyone. Anyone but Cato, that is.

**AN: Three chapters in as many days! You guys should feel so loved that I'm updating this regularly, though I probably should warn you not to get used to this special treatment! I'm so happy you guys are enjoying this story, because I'm really enjoying writing it! I love the fact that I've had people begging me not to turn this into a fluff piece. Don't worry, I won't. I'm a harsh, cynical person. I do not do fluff =D **

**This chapter's kinda pointless, but hey ho, I wanted to write something a little bit angst-y, and this is the result of that. Next chapter will be focussed on the chariot ride, so expect some Katniss hatred =D**

**A massive thank you to everyone who has reviewed! Seriously, it means so much to me. A special thank you goes out to TheHappyCynic, who basically wrote me an essay telling me how much she liked the story. **

**Also, to TheRulerAndTheKiller: Thanks for the review! I'm so glad you're enjoying Clove's psychotic ramblings. I love writing in that tone, so you can expect more of that =] And you have no idea how happy it makes me to think that this story is giving you inspiration. And you're doing a Creative Writing course? Coolio. I study Creative Writing at university; you'll enjoy it loads =D**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


	9. And The Storm Keeps On Blowing

I'm sat in the apartment that has been assigned to us for our duration in the Capitol, watching Cato smash and trash everything he can get hold of. The place is a mess. He's left a trail of destruction, a trail of chaos, a trail of disarray. Every object that isn't attached to the walls has been broken in his fit of rage.

And it doesn't look like the storm's about to calm. It doesn't look like the bedlam will ease. It doesn't look like he's going stop any time soon.

A small, tiny part of me wants to join in. I want to scream. I want to shout. I want to destroy something. I want to destroy that bitch.

But instead of moving, instead of letting the burning hatred take control, I sit and watch as Cato hurtles around the room ungracefully, screaming and raging and destroying.

All of this mess is her fault. Katniss Everdeen. The bitch herself. She's responsible for the chaos. She's responsible for Cato blowing his fuse. She's responsible for destroying my Games.

Everything was going fine. No. Everything was going great. The crowd loved us. They loved me and they loved Cato. They loved us together. They loved our fierceness. They loved the danger that sparked between us. They loved us.

And then District Twelve – of all places – had to come and destroy all of that. District Twelve had to ruin it all with their flames and their sparks and their fire. Why didn't they just burn? Why didn't they just become charred and burnt? Why didn't they just become a pile of ash?

"Cato," I call, my voice hoarse and thick as I stand up and move towards him. Everything that could be broken has. There's nothing left for him to break. Nothing left for him to destroy. But the angers still burning brightly in him, fuelling his rage and hatred. He doesn't stop. He's physically shaking as he stalks the room.

And then I realised how young he looks when he's like this. How young he looks when he's sulking and raging. How young he looks when there's actually emotion on his face.

He ignores me. Of course he ignores me. But this has gone on too long. The chaos that Cato has created won't help, not in the long run. Sure, it might be a release of the pent up anger – but we should keep that anger, let it nurture and grow, and then use it, once we're in the arena. Once we're allowed to hurt District Twelve like how they've hurt us.

I square my shoulders, bracing myself for the fight. He has to stop. He has to calm down. If he doesn't, then I'm unsure what he'll do, but it'll probably include him putting his fist through the wall. And although I don't care about him causing himself pain, I don't want him hurt. He has to be at his peak for when the Games start. He has to be at his peak; it's the only way we're going to have a fair fight to the death. A fight to the death that I'm determined to win.

"Cato," I repeat, walking slowly towards him. My voice is quieter than before, but my tone is definitely not softer. I want him to realise that I will stop him madness. I want him to realise that I will overpower him. That I will end up killing him – after I've killed Katniss Everdeen and her fellow district tribute. After I make them pay for making a mockery out of me and Cato.

"Go away Clove," he growls in my direction, his face snarling, his eyes wild.

It's my time to ignore him as I advance on my prey. I watch him carefully as I move forward, trying to find a way to subdue him. Trying to find a way to overpower him.

I smirk, noticing that he's hurt. Noticing that he's bleeding. He must have cut his palm at some point during his tyrannical rampage, because now there's a path of blood trailing on the floor, dripping from his hand.

I'm only three small steps away from him. He's staring me down, probably attempting to warn me off my prominent attack. We both know what's coming, and the gleam in Cato's eyes shining harshly under the artificial lights tells me that he's ready for the fight as much as I am.

I pounce on him, covering the space between us in one leap. Cato instantly shifts to a defensive position, squaring his shoulders and raising arms up. I suppose he did it to protect his face, assuming that was what I was aiming for. But it wasn't.

Instead, he's made my job all that easier. I grab his wrist, thrusting my hand into his. Sticking out my thumb, I plunge it into his cut. I plunge it into his palm. I plunge it into his flesh, feeling the red heat of his blood pulse and throb as he stifles a cry of pain.

It was easy. Too easy. A small part of me wanted a fight. A small part of me wanted to go for his face. A small part of me wanted to hit him. Scratch him. Bite him. And a small part of me wanted him to do the exact same things back to me. I wanted to fight. I wanted to tussle. I wanted us to be on the floor, trying to kill each other.

But that would have to wait. I'd have to wait. I'd have to become more patient. It would come, soon enough. But before I ended Cato, I was going to deal with the bitch from 12. I was going to cut her up into tiny little pieces. I was going to slice her and dice her. I was going to make her regret making a mockery out of District Two. Make her regret making a mockery out of me and Cato.

"Stop it," I demanded, as Cato scowled and winced, fighting not to show the pain that I was causing him. He twisted and turned, trying to grab hold of my wrist like I was holding onto his, trying to pull me away, trying to yank me out of his skin, but in our struggle we had shifted and moved towards the wall. On one side, there was the ghastly painted pink wall. And on the other, there was me.

He was completely and utterly trapped.

I used all my force, all my strength, to twist his body around slightly, so he was facing the wall. Pulling his arm backwards, I pinned it behind him, making him defenceless. Making him unable to attack. Making him mine.

It was hard not to laugh as he cursed and hissed and struggle to no avail. Obviously, he had no idea what my fighting style was. Obviously, he had no idea what he was up against. He simply had no idea what I could do. What I was capable of.

I had seen him fight before, in and out of the training centre. I knew his moves. I knew what he did, and when. I knew him. Cato was all about the attack. He hit and he struck and he carried on doing this until he had crippled his opponent to the floor. He didn't think. He hit. That was all he was capable of.

And that would make it so easy for me to hurt him. To kill him.

But I was getting giddy. I was getting too ahead of myself. I stood on my tip toes, leaning my body into Cato's so I could whisper into his ear.

"You're going to listen to what I've got to say, and you're not going to interrupt me, got it?" I asked, my tone still quiet but deadly, not bothering to pause for a reply. "Katniss Everdeen is going to die. She's going to die because we're going to kill her. And it's going to be an extremely long and painful death. The bitch is going to get everything she deserves. We're going to punish her, torture her. We're going to end her.

I know you're mad. And believe me, I'm mad too. But stropping? Having a hissy fit over it? That's not going to get us anywhere. In fact, that's going to make it even harder. You've already hurt yourself because of your stupidity. What use are you if you're injured? None at all. All this has achieved is trashing the apartment, bleeding on the floor and getting yourself hurt.

It's pointless. Absolutely pointless. What you should have done, is kept the anger and the hatred and the violence inside, pent up, until we get into the arena. Until we get to hurt her. To kill her. Destroy her. Make her pay for making a fool out of us.

So instead of carrying on with the chaos and the mayhem and instead of using up all your energy making this place look like a war zone, can you please grow up and start acting like the proper Career I know you are? Can you please wait until we get into the arena to start with the insane acts of violence? Can you please wait until we get the chance to end Katniss Everdeen's life together?"

I let go of him then, taking my thumb out of wound and stepping back, waiting for him to either agree with my speech or lunge at me.

He turned around slowly. The anger was still in his eyes, but it had faded ever so slightly. He was cradling his hurt hand which was now completely covered in blood. I quickly glance down at my own hand, noticing that it was tainted a brilliant crimson. Noticing it was tainted with Cato's blood.

He took a step forward, and I instantly tensed, readying myself for him to completely lose it. Readying myself for him to attack me.

Instead, he walked up to me, ruffling my hair with his good hand.

I scowled, taking a step back so I could glare at him without craning my neck.

"That was quite a pretty speech there, Little One," Cato told me, smirking ever so slightly at the evident look of disgust on my face at him having patronised me in such a way. "And maybe you're right. Maybe all this has achieved me is a messed up room and hand. And maybe I should have waited until I got into the arena before I exploded. But that's all you're right about.

Everything else, you're wrong. You are so wrong. There's no 'we'. There's not 'us'. We are not a team. We are not going to work together. And we are definitely not going to kill Katniss Everdeen together. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to kill her on my own. Got it?"

Like me moments earlier, he didn't bother to wait for a reply. Instead, he strode past me, pushed past me as the sides of our bodies collided, and out of the room. Leaving me completely and utterly alone.

**AN: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry it's taken me forever to post this. It seems like I have nothing to do for weeks on end, and then BAM! I'm suddenly busy and I have no time to write. Anywho, I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I have to admit, I'm not too sure about the ending but I've been staring at the screen for a good half an hour and I have no idea how to improve it (plus I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer) so it'll have to do =D**

**A massive thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Seriously, I love you guys!**

**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE HUNGER GAMES!**


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